


Missing Pages

by LibertineQuarantine (elyndys), Missoneminute



Category: The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23187388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elyndys/pseuds/LibertineQuarantine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missoneminute/pseuds/Missoneminute
Summary: For the Tumblr prompt "memories that surface during the process of writing a book". Written by a friend.Send me prompts! I'msuchasinistergameon Tumblr!
Relationships: Carl Barat/Pete Doherty
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50
Collections: Peter and Carl fics to lift our spirits during self-isolation





	Missing Pages

The diaries were to be published. There were twelve volumes, at least – some had been lost, some had been stolen by fans from dressing rooms and trailers and hotels – but the most important ones Peter never let fall into the wrong hands. He was a man who was clumsy with so much, but he knew how to keep something precious close to him when it mattered. 

So these old journals. Splayed on the floor around him. Raggedy spines, wine-stained pages, some stuck all the way together with unknown muck. All this rambling history. To be consumed by a hungry mob as heartsick as he was. Some mystery penmanship, some mysterious prose, and some of the pages, of course, would have to go. 

March 28, 2000. 

Carlos came home in a rotten mood. Melodies couldn’t soothe him. 

That’s all it said, but that’s not all that happened, Peter thought. Carl did come home in a rotten mood. He was still working then, in the theatre, and he had on his work clothes, of course. Peter had been strumming the etchings of a song all day long and wanted Carl to join him, to inject that magic he twirled round a whisper of a riff that turned it into a beast. 

But Carl bristled at him – it started a row. Peter couldn’t remember the particulars now. Why Carl was in a mood, what hurtful things they said to one another. There was a flash of anger left over in his mind where the fight was, just a missing film reel, and nothing else. 

The next memory he had was a bittersweet one – crawling into Carl’s bed beside him. Waiting for his friend’s tense body to wane and warm to him. To collapse inch by inch into the arms so ready to embrace him that they hurt with anticipation.

Peter can’t remember if they made love that day, or was it night? That detail was gone too. Light, dark, pointless information. They must have, though, because he recalled them laying shirtless together in that bed, laughing helplessly. Kisses that constantly interrupted the conversation. Untainted pictures in his mind, preciously clear. 

He was brought back to the diaries, back to the floor. He tore the page out, and it was gone. 

December 22, 1999 - 

Wait, what order are these damn things in? Peter wondered. It didn’t matter he supposed, someone else could have the job of working that out. So – 

December 22, 1999. 

Never have I relished a thing stranger than his mouth on mine after these weeks and months of longing. Down an alleyway dingy, drunk us both, it was raining on and off. He grasped me by the collar. I pitched my arm back ready for a fight. The loveliest sound, me or him or us both at once. Sounded like relief. Streams of water down our macs. Truly happy. His laughter bouncing off wet bricks. Was he mocking me? It didn’t matter. The mouth was on mine. I understood everything – 

Well fuck, Peter thought. That page had to go. He tore it away from the binding – it resisted at first, trying to force itself into history – but it died soon enough, a battle in vain against his giant hands. He folded it, though, and placed it in his pocket. 

Back to the books, and a page he knew he had to destroy. 

February 6, 2000 - 

Peter looked at the words, but lost focus. They blurred. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to read them again. He had, four dozen times, or more, in the past. He’d obsessed over the details. 

He even wished he’d written it better, but something about re-tooling those first breathless thoughts felt like it would make a lie of it. He couldn’t trust himself not to undo the purity of that memory for the sake of prose. 

He took a breath. He looked down. The words became clear. 

February 6, 2000. 

A zip being undone can sound so alarming. Weirdly pornographic, heart pounding beautiful thrilling warmth down the back nonetheless. What got us here, a kiss and a tumble and a wink and a laugh. On the couch, really? Not how I imagined it. Suppose it would do. Not ideal for… well. It’s him who takes charge but it always is, isn’t it, despite his whining otherwise. Hands in places that make us giggle, why’s it so funny hey? It’s always funny. Wine-drunk tongue in my mouth differently this time. Dozens of kisses before this once colossal now feel weak. A few moments of awkward arrangement, hot skin, weight of him sinking down onto mine sticking… Laughing has stopped, I realise after a time, room hollow with echo of murmurs. It’s a serious business. Scolding warm and a little violent then done. All flushed-faced embarrassment is gone and just the flush left. In the dark we smoke a cigarette. There’s two left, one broken. Feel completely alone and unseen and privately beautiful. Jagged shards of teeth shiny in shards of street light. Laughter starts back up.

Peter looks up from the page and realises it’s made him blush, and it hurts some distant way too. Why he doesn’t know, it doesn’t say much, really, does it. It’s just a small thing, lost to the past, isn’t it?

He tears out that page, slowly, steadily, as if it needs a clean line to be set loose from it’s place. He folds it with the other one. 

Must remember not to leave them in his jacket pocket.


End file.
